‘Even Wales.’
They were silent for a moment. Llewelyn Powys seemed to have slipped between them, and Llewelyn ap Iorwerth. Two heroes. Lyn started to hum, almost under his breath, a battle-anthem he remembered from his youth. The tune was catchy, cheerful.
‘Shall we sing?’ he suggested, suddenly.
‘Sing?’ Edward sounded shocked.
‘Why not? To keep our spirits up.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know many songs.’
‘You must know Mary Malone, or—how about Cherry Ripe?’
‘Neither, I’m afraid.’
‘Danny Boy? The Ashgrove?’
‘No.’
Lyn pulled at the coat to cover their chests. Edward had been more deprived than he had. Hester had sung him songs, taught him verses, even before he could read.
‘How about a hymn, then?’ Hester had never gone to church, but she had sung hymns about the house, her voice resounding like an organ, making everything too solemn. ‘There is a Green Hill Far Away. Everyone knows that.’
‘Meaning ‘‘even I must’’! Yes, I do, in fact.’
Lyn cleared his throat, hummed up and down the scale to find the note, then let his voice leap forward. He rarely sang these days. It felt freeing, jubilant. The words were hot and soaring in his mouth when everything else was cramped and glacial. Edward’s powerful baritone was sounding underneath him now, adding harmony and strength. They were perfectly in tune, except the words were wrong for Christmas. It was a hymn for Passiontide, for Easter. Crucifixion, Resurrection. Lyn could feel their voices melting the snow, sweeping away the shivering weeks till April. It had been two cruel Aprils before that, that he and Jennifer had conceived their child—the child he had refused to recognise and which had died because he willed it to.
He stopped suddenly, in the middle of the second verse. Edward’s voice went on a moment, the deep, unwavering baritone echoing through the car.
‘Forgotten the words?’ he asked, breaking off as well.
Lyn frowned. ‘No. We’re in the wrong season. We need a Christmas hymn.’ He stared at the windows, thickly furred with snow. ‘Do you know In the Bleak Mid-winter?’
‘No. Though it sounds appropriate.’
‘It’s beautiful. Christina Rossetti wrote it.’ Lyn started to recite the words.
‘In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan.
Earth stood hard as iron
Water like a stone …’
Edward shook his head. ‘No—never heard of it. Strange, that. I always went to church at Christmas. And most Sundays. My mother was very religious.’
‘Hester’s your mother. You mean Alice Fraser.’
‘Er … yes …’
Silence.
‘Hester liked that hymn. She used to sing it in the middle of summer. When the corn was high and everything green and golden, she’d be booming ‘‘Snow had fallen, snow on snow‘’.’ Lyn was singing now.
Edward took up the tune. ‘‘‘Snow on snow, snow on snow‘’. It’s just right for today, isn’t it?’ He blew on his hands to warm them up. The car was getting fuggy from their breath, but still perishing cold. As the larger man, he was the more uncomfortable—legs cramped, neck and shoulders huddled.
Lyn nodded, finished the verse full-volume, dislodging the coat as he conducted with his hands. It felt strange to be singing at all. His voice was like his sex—something he kept down, mistrusted now. Yet it was somehow right and pleasing to be singing carols on Christmas Day with a relative. He could feel Edward’s body shivering into his own. ‘I never forget the next verse. It’s my favourite.’
Lyn sang just the last four lines, and almost in a whisper. They were too beautiful to shout.
‘But only his mother
In her maiden bliss
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.’
All his favourite words were in those four short lines—mother, maiden, worship, beloved. As a boy, he had seen pictures of the Madonna, young yet ripe, maiden and mother both. He had fused Mary with Susannah, the Christ-child with himself, imagined himself beloved, worshipped with a kiss, Susannah’s long hair and soft blue veil bending over him in the hay. Blasphemy. Bliss.
Later, Jennifer had been maiden and beloved. But never mother. He had killed her baby, stolen her maidenhead. He glanced across at Edward, blur and bulk in the gloom. No mother had welcomed or worshipped him. Only foster-mother, foreign mother. Banished, not beloved.
He cleared his throat. ‘Weren’t you ever … er … curious to come to England before this—see your native land?’
Edward hesitated. ‘Yes. Yes, I was. I thought about it many times. I was especially keen to visit Wales. I sent for all the brochures, even looked up hotels and worked out routes and … But somehow I never made it. Stupid, isn’t it? I think I was a bit … well … worried that it wouldn’t quite match up to my expectations. You know how you can build up a place and see it as a sort of fantasy or …’
‘Fairy-tale.’
‘Yes. A country of the mind.’
‘And were you disappointed?’
‘Well, I haven’t been to Wales. I’ve …’
‘England, then—in general?’
‘I haven’t seen much of England, either—apart from today, of course—and yesterday. The journey up was most impressive. The train stopped at York and I saw the cathedral from the window. It seemed specially beautiful on Christmas Eve, with the snow falling on that splendid roof and … But apart from that’—Edward shrugged—‘I’ve been in London all the time.’
Lyn was stamping and circling his feet, to try and warm them up. There was no feeling left in them at all. The car was beginning to smell from their fuggy breath and damp clothes. He felt embarrassed by their closeness to each other, the brute animal inadequacies of their two overlapping bodies. He envied the angels in the hymn—Cherubim and Seraphim—souls and wings instead of stinks and pricks. As a boy he had asked the ranger to show him a Seraphim—imagined it a bird like a curlew or a golden plover. He edged closer into his corner. ‘All right—London, then. What d’you think of our capital?’
Edward said nothing for a moment. Lyn tried to imagine London through his eyes. Cold, dirty, inhospitable. No one to welcome him except solicitors. Expensive and impersonal hotels. Streets jammed with Christmas shoppers. Hold-ups on the tube. Strikes. Power-cuts.
‘It’s … er … much bigger than expected—a little overpowering, to tell the truth. People seem in such a hurry all the time. And it’s cold, of course—very cold. Back home, I’d be in shirt-sleeves now, admiring the blooms of the red pohutukawa and sipping mango juice before supper on the terrace.’
‘Sounds odd for Christmas,’ Lyn observed. Surely Christmas should be cold and harsh. Only then could April triumph, limp in pale and convalescent like a Lazarus.
‘Snow and ice seem equally odd to me. I’ve seen pictures of British Christmases, of course, but they always looked so cosy—roaring fires and choirboys, and the sort of fancy stick-on snow that’s just a background for a stage-coach. I wasn’t quite prepared for … well—the harshness of the country.’ Edward peered around him, imagining the wilderness which the igloo of the car shut out. It was bad enough inside. He had cramp in his right leg now, a pain across his shoulders made worse by his damp clothes. He tried to ease his body, but it was impossible to do more than shift a fraction.
Lyn was fidgeting beside him. ‘This isn’t really typical. Remember, we’re very far north up here. You probably don’t realise, but there’s a good-sized chunk of Scotland further south than we are.’
‘Is that so? I’d never have guessed, except for the cold, of course. I’m still completely numb, aren’t you? Mind you, I’d liked to have seen Scotland—and the Lake District—toured the whole country, in fact. But it wasn’t really possible. I was more or less tied to London by my lawyers. They advised me to stay put, so I’d be available if they needed me or in case of new developmen
ts or … Not that it did me any good. I seem to have got absolutely nowhere.’
Lyn tensed. So they were back to the lawsuit again—had the rest of the night to go in and out of all its complications. He could hardly run away, wedged thigh to thigh with the plaintiff in the back seat of a very minor Morris, with a snow-storm raging round them. Whilst they were singing, he had felt elation, even warmth, now only cold, trapped and hopeless.
Edward had huddled forward again, hugging himself with his arms. ‘I mean, now they tell me Matthew’s gone away.’
‘Gone away?’
‘Surely you knew?’
Lyn shook his head irritably, wondered how long it was till light. ‘Matthew’s never away at Christmas. In fact, we usually spend it with him. It’s quite a thing with him—you know, proper family Christmas—presents round the tree and …’ He felt a sudden sense of loss. He had always grumbled about Christmases at Putney, yet they were like a sacred ritual and he hated rituals broken. ‘Where’s he gone, for heaven’s sake?’
‘I wish I knew. I was simply informed that Matthew’s solicitor had lost contact with his client, whatever that’s suposed to mean. Apparently, he’s not answering his phone at home and no one at the office seems to have any idea where he’s got to. I suppose it may be just a holiday, but …’
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ Lyn jabbed his foot against the seat in front. It sounded wrong, alarming. Matthew never went on holiday without piling his subordinates with memos and instructions, emergency addresses.
‘I assumed you knew, of course. In fact, if you’ll forgive me, I … er … thought it was all part of some … arrangement between you both, to fob me off or gain more time or …’
‘Of course not. I haven’t laid eyes on Matthew now for weeks.’
‘You surprise me.’
‘You needn’t sound sarcastic. It happens to be true. Matthew and I lost … touch for a while. There were … problems.’
‘More problems? That’s a pity. I was hoping you could help me in his absence. My lawyers are still waiting for all those facts and figures. Matthew’s handed nothing over at all, yet.’
‘Well, it’s no good asking me. I know very little about his business affairs.’
‘But you work for him. You …’
‘Not any more, I don’t. And even when I did, I was very much a junior.’
‘But I understood you were the chief artist on the book and …’
‘I wouldn’t even use the word artist. I was a commercial hack churning out designs with the sole purpose of jacking up the sales. That’s not my idea of art.’ Lyn felt disloyal even while he was saying it. He had a sudden vision of Matthew on Christmas Day, doing his best to be jovial and fatherly. He had even once dressed up as Father Christmas, a rigid and embarrassed Father Christmas who handed out the Ten Commandments with the toys.
‘Mind you, I suppose I was lucky to get a job at all. Most of my painter friends landed up starving in their non-existent studios, or permanently on the dole. It’s never easy to sell a painting, especially ones like mine. You’d hate my stuff. It’s …’
‘I’ve … er … seen it, actually. Or some of it, at least.’
Lyn stared at him. ‘You can’t have done. I’ve thrown a hell of a lot away and all the rest is hidden or locked up. I never show my work to anyone. I used to, when I was younger, and people said fatuous things like ‘‘the sky isn’t purple’’ or …’
‘Actually, I liked your use of colour.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Look, I … hope you don’t think I was … prying, but while you were out on that walk this afternoon, it got very dark and cold, and I was searching round for something to re-light the fire. I came across this great roll of … papers stuffed away right at the back of a cupboard. At first, I didn’t realise what it was and was just about to burn it, but when I unrolled the sheets, I found there were ten or twelve paintings, all covered with dust and cobwebs. I’d no idea they were yours, of course, but then I found a … letter tucked inside the roll. It was written to you, from Matthew, years and years ago. I suppose I shouldn’t have read it, but I must admit, by then I was rather intrigued. Matthew wrote that he was sending back your work and that …’
Lyn jerked forward so quickly, the coat fell on the floor. ‘God! I remember now. They’re donkey’s years old, those paintings. I sent a batch of them to Matthew when I was seventeen or so. He was always interested in my work and …’ Lyn broke off. Matthew had encouraged his art—the only one who had—acted as his counsellor and priest. Maybe he had trained him in the wrong religion, but at least he had kept his skills and gift alight. He had returned those paintings minus one, begged to keep that for himself. He had had it framed (expensively) and hung it on his study wall, just above his desk. Funny how you could forget the things that mattered. ‘Yes, Matthew seemed to … er … like my stuff. I don’t know why.’
‘I liked it.’ Edward was kneading his thighs and shoulders to try and restore the feeling to them. ‘I have to admit I’m a duffer when it comes to art, but I felt you’d really caught the feeling of this countryside. I know they’re not realistic, or naturalistic, or whatever you painters call it, but I recognised those hills immediately. That’s exactly how you see them—sort of springing out at you as you come along that road, and then taking over everything, until they fill the whole horizon.’
Lyn nodded, too surprised to speak. He was stunned that Edward had understood—had seen that wild relentless grandeur of the Cheviots, dwarfing man to pygmy, their purple throats gagging on the clouds, the sky pushed back to give them room enough. He remembered doing those paintings as a gawky lad, still in fear of Hester, fighting cold and squall to get them right. Everything was too huge and overpowering—the wind uprooting trunks like twigs, the bare and rugged ridges unfolding back and back and back. Those hills had shaped his art.
Edward sneezed, fumbled for his handkerchief. ‘Why don’t you go on painting? Make it your career? You’ve obviously got talent, if you were that good as a lad.’
Lyn gave a bitter laugh. ‘You need money to paint—almost a private income. It’s more or less a luxury to turn out what you want instead of what the market wants or the gallery owners decide is chic or fashionable.’ What did Edward know about truth or compromise, integrity or sell-out? Even Matthew had linked art to livelihood, put blinkers on his brush. ‘No patron’s going to back you if you don’t make a profit for them somewhere along the line. The art world’s every bit as commercial as Matthew’s publishing world.’
There was silence, suddenly. Lyn reached across for his own coat, damp and soggy still, laid it over his feet. Every subject seemed to have reached deadlock—his art cut off in its youth, the lawyers thwarted, Matthew vanished. He was worried about Matthew. Where had he gone and why? He should never have lost touch with him—lost touch with everyone. Wives or brothers could die and he wouldn’t know.
He slumped back in his corner. Hours and hours to go yet, and a thousand questions unsettled, even unbroached. The snow was still whirling around them, Edward’s watch ticking too slowly on to morning. ‘Talent’ Matthew had written in his letters ‘Undeniable gift’. He had bundled those praises away, let them get as dusty as the drawings.
Edward shifted on the seat, cleared his throat. ‘Look Lyn, there’s … er … something I want to ask you.’
‘What?’ Lyn refused to even look up. If Edward wanted figures, contracts, documents, he wouldn’t and couldn’t supply them. Wouldn’t betray Matthew.
‘I’m in a bit of a … dilemma. I’ve been left a house in England—your house, Hester’s house—and yet I can’t stay on here and look after it. It’s just not practical. It was only a spur-of-the-moment decision to come to this country at all, and I only intended to stay for two or three weeks at the most. I realise nothing’s settled as yet, but my lawyers will have to carry on alone now, consult me at a distance. Otherwise I’ll be here till next Christmas, the way things are
dragging on. I’m glad I’ve met you, Lyn—very glad—but I’ve got to get back home soon, and I use that word deliberately. England can’t be home for me. Not now. It’s too … late. I’d be like a fish out of water here. All my friends are back in Warkworth. I belong there—despite the gossip. I thought I could run away from it, but it’s followed me even here. Maybe worse over here, because it’s public in the newspapers instead of private in people’s sitting-rooms, and I haven’t got my friends to counter it. I’ve decided to return as soon as …’
Lyn cut in, almost rudely. ‘So you’re trying to tell me you’ve got to sell Hernhope, are you? I’ve told you, that house isn’t just a pile of stones, or another piddling property like … It’s Hester’s heritage, her gift to you. She left you everything she had, and now you turn round and …’
‘But I’ve got a home—already—which is just as much a heritage as Hernhope. My foster-parents bequeathed it to me, to cherish, and it was their parents’ home before that. I’ve lived there all my life, Lyn—which means almost twice as long as you’ve lived here.’
Lyn said nothing. So Edward was turning tail again, had decided that the malicious buzz and mud-slinging in Warkworth were less threatening than what he had run away to. England had disappointed him—that was obvious from his earlier remarks. The enchanted garden of the fairy-tale had turned into a cold unfriendly metropolis, full of vulgar pouncing journalists, and even Hester’s Magic Castle had proved only a grim fortress in a wasteland. Many people shied away from Hernhope, feared its harshness, its seclusion. He had warmed to Jennifer because she had fallen instantly in love with it. He heard her voice again, saw her sitting motionless and marvelling, her hand reaching across for his.
He sat on the hand, frowned into the darkness. ‘Anyway, it won’t be an easy house to sell. Not many people fancy living somewhere so remote. There was another house for sale on that same stretch of hill, about ten years ago. Not a single person came to view it. It’s a ruin now, full of nettles and sheep shit.’
Edward rubbed his chin. ‘Yes, that’s … er … all part of the problem. Actually, I heard rumours back in New Zealand that Hernhope was abandoned and already becoming derelict, and I must admit it made me very angry. That’s one of the reasons I decided to come over. But now I’ve seen the place, I understand the difficulties. The whole area’s so inaccessible and …’
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